HOP TOAD
Take one jigger of Hungarian apricot eau-de-vie, the juice of half a lime and two dashes of Peychaud’s bitters. Shake well and drink very cold to make the heart leap and the tongue jump.
In Tangiers, there is always a way in. Whether it’s a soft word or a wink, a jackboot or a silver dollar in the palm, there is always something that will open the door.
I thought Dolores Moberly would be my key, and so I let her drag me through the night, let her waft brandy and broken French and Spanish into my face. I didn’t hear a word. I was too busy looking around, as we stepped heavily from the taxi.
We had pulled up alongside an ancient stone archway. From up here, I could see the lights of ships, glinting on the strait.
‘Where are we?’ I asked impatiently. I’d expected us to pull into a driveway, or alongside a grand entrance. Here, I could see nothing but a high, white wall, running away into darkness.
‘We’re here, darling.’ Dolores took my arm. ‘That’s Dar Portuna, look!’ She pointed to the wall, the tiny bag swinging on her wrist. ‘Funny name, isn’t it? Wait!’ She stopped dead on the dark road, listening.
Noises were drifting over the top of the wall: a treble of laughter, a splashing sound, a squalling jazz horn that broke the night open.
I forgot the woman who held my arm and walked forwards, my nose to the air, because now I could smell cigar smoke and jasmine, heady in the night.
The sounds and scents led us around the corner to a gate, where double wooden doors barred the way and an ornate, curling sign announced:
Dar Portuna
‘If I’d known we were coming to a party, I would’ve worn my silk,’ Dolores was murmuring, dabbing at her face.
Her two friends had trailed behind us, sullen and smoking.
I tried the handle of the gate. It was locked.
There was a bell, buffed bronze, and I jabbed at it without a second thought.
Too late I realized that my suit was dusty, that the tie was loose around my collar, the woman beside me undeniably drunk. The door swung open.
‘Senor Langham—’
Not Langham. A Moroccan man in a pristine brocade robe was staring at me.
‘Hello,’ I tried in my best English. ‘I am looking for Senor Langham?’
‘Have you an invitation?’ he replied in French.
‘I,’ I stuttered. ‘No, but I know him—’
‘Yes, and we’ve been before,’ the woman interrupted, leaning on my arm. ‘Miss Dolores Moberly and friends. Your master is sure to remember.’
The man’s face didn’t change. Beyond him I saw lights twinkling through trees, windows shining. I stepped forwards.
‘No admittance without an invitation,’ the man said.
‘Wait!’
The door slammed, a bolt slid, and we were out in the dust of the street once more.
‘How rude!’ Dolores slurred. ‘To send a servant to lock us out.’
‘You said yourself it was the devil’s work to get in,’ the blond man muttered, lighting a cigarette. ‘Let’s go to The Grand instead.’
I said nothing. I had to get in. I had to see Langham. If I could talk to him, just for a second … I took a step back.
‘Alejandro?’ Dolores asked.
I ran for the wall, leaping for the wooden trellis that supported the jasmine.
Stems broke under my weight, the smell of flowers and crushed greenery swamping me as I hauled myself upwards, shoes scraping at the whitewash.
With a burst of effort I managed to sling one arm over the top, then the other, then a leg.
I caught a glimpse of Dolores, her mouth hanging open, before the branches sagged under my weight, sending me tumbling ten feet to the ground the other side.
For a few seconds I lay stunned, lungs flattened by the fall, hat knocked askew. When the air rushed back into my chest, it brought the scent of a garden, ferns and lilies and the sweetness of mint, crushed beneath me. Wincing, I pushed myself to my feet.
‘Alejandro?’ I heard Dolores calling beyond the gate. ‘Are you all right?’
I never answered her.
The house stood surrounded by its gardens, softly white and draped in shadows.
Windows looked down from the highest floors like half-closed eyes, their wooden shutters carved with stars.
Below, doors were thrown wide, muslin curtains swept back, lights creeping on tiles until I couldn’t tell what was inside and what was out.
From the other side of the house came the sound of the party, piano notes drifting in the lantern-lit trees.
Brushing off the hat, I moved forwards, the brandy making me bold.
At a pair of open doors I paused, peering inside.
I saw a lounge, empty of people, flickering with candlelight.
The remains of a buffet littered a sideboard and before I knew it I was rushing inside, seizing a bread roll from a basket and cramming it into my mouth, glancing over my shoulder.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten properly and on seeing that food, the flash and fire of the brandy disappeared, leaving my belly as empty as a cavern.
I had no idea what most of it was. Eggs sprinkled with red powder, I stuffed one of those down, and a strange thing in a pastry case that tasted like fish.
After the opulence of the house and the gardens, I had expected the food to be the same.
It wasn’t. The fish was on the turn, the eggs chalky.
I seized a cutlet next, which sat in a pool of congealed cream sauce.
It was not much better. I licked my fingers and turned to find the next dish.
‘I say.’
A woman was standing in the door. I froze, hoping the dim light would hide any green stains on my clothes.
‘Don’t s’pose you’ve seen Claude?’ she asked.
She was drunk, I realized, her eyes unfocused.
I shook my head and fled through another set of doors on to a veranda.
There were more people here, reclining on cushions that had been thrown on the marble tiles with no regard for dust or dirt.
The music and noise and conversation was louder than before.
On a low table beside me, a drink had been abandoned.
I picked it up and took a gulp only to cough and grimace at the sting of raw liquor.
I held it to the light. It glowed grenadine-red, but like the food, it didn’t taste right, left a sticky burning in my throat.
I kept hold of it anyway, trying to look as if I belonged, even though I was sweating, my hands clammy and trembling.
Now that I was here, I had no idea how to go about my plan.
Find Langham, I told myself, ask to speak to him in private.
I swallowed hard. What happened next would depend on his reaction.
Ahead, a string of electric bulbs illuminated a path to a raised terrace, where the party was in full swing.
Around a small swimming pool, people sat drinking, talking, their shoes flung off, their teeth and eyes catching the light.
There was a splash: a woman in a silver dress had leapt fully clothed into the pool.
She emerged to applause, the jewels around her neck sparkling with water.
Beneath an arbour, a gramophone was warbling out a record, and there beside it stood Langham, just as I remembered him, with his saint’s face and his hair slicked bright.
He looked so easy there, so in control, I felt my conviction sputter and die.
I’d been thinking about him as if he was one of the gentlemen at the inn; rich, indolent, predictable.
But as soon as I saw him, I knew I was wrong.
He might have been rich, but he was as sharp as glass.
I took a step back, turned rapidly, only to come face to face with the man from the front gate.
‘You.’ His mouth was tight with anger. ‘How did you get in?’
He seized hold of my arm. I jerked away, the glass flying from my grip, shattering on the tiles.
There was a lull in talk and laughter as people turned to look.
Beneath their flat, intoxicated gazes I felt as if every ugly thing I had ever been or done was laid bare.
Vomit and burning Turkish Delight, the Senor’s blood and the hot breath of the man I’d robbed in La Atunara, Bautista’s sneer, the goat-eyed man’s hostile stare.
Worst of all, I felt Alejandro del Potro begin to fade.
I clung on to him as I looked up, into Langham’s eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ he called. ‘Bouzid?’
‘Rien, monsieur.’ The man increased his grip on my arm. ‘An intruder. I will remove him.’
Langham was coming forwards, frowning. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re that boy, from Gibraltar. Del Potro, isn’t it?’
Behind him, I saw a figure stand. It was the woman, Lady Bailey. She looked incredulous, her mouth open.
‘Sí, senor,’ I said, my face on fire.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ He didn’t sound angry, but when I looked into his face I thought I saw the ghost of something else. Suspicion, perhaps even fear. ‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘Some people I met in the Café Central told me.’ I answered in Spanish, as if that would protect me from his glittering, scornful guests.
‘Some Americans. I am, senor, I am here …’ Beneath Langham’s gaze, all of my careful, calculated words seemed ridiculous.
He would see straight through them. And that only left the truth. ‘I am here to see you.’
‘Who is this boy, Arthur?’ I heard someone call. ‘What does he want?’
‘He’s the lad I knocked down in Gibraltar,’ Langham called back, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘He says he has come all this way to see me. Isn’t that extraordinary?’
He was mocking me. An easy thing to do, to make his guests laugh. I felt anger flicker in my chest, but kept my gaze steady.
‘What do you want?’ Langham asked. He raised his eyebrows at the hat on my head. ‘I thought we parted on good terms.’
I knotted my guts. Bribery wouldn’t work now, I knew. Nor would pleading or begging. He’d sneer and throw me out for that. I needed to do something else, something surprising, that he wasn’t expecting. Rich people were always bored. I took a breath.
‘We did, senor. You were kind to me, and I have not forgotten it. So, being alone in the world, I have come to ask if you might consider allowing me to work for you, in exchange for room and board.’
There was a pause. ‘Work for me?’ Langham said. ‘Doing what exactly?’
He laughed, but his voice was careful. Looking into his eyes I felt it again, the jostling of unsaid words between us. I raised my voice.
‘I will be your private chef, senor, I will work in your kitchen and serve you and your guests. I will make anything you want. I am a good cook. You will not be disappointed.’
I couldn’t look at the party guests, though I heard exclamations from the ones who spoke Spanish, their mirth at my expense.
‘I hire in a chef when I need one, del Potro.’ Langham’s lip twitched. ‘Why should I employ you?’
‘Because your chef is bad. And a crook too, I’ll wager.’
That made his eyes narrow, his lips pinch a fraction.
‘What makes you say that?’
My heart was thumping beneath the bindings.
‘Because the fish I tasted tonight is half rotten,’ I said, with as much authority as I could.
‘Whoever cooked it has tried to hide the taste with too much dill. The cutlets were not much better. The butter used to make the sauce was rancid, the wine cheap. The grenadine in your drinks –’ I nodded towards a glass ‘– is fake. It’s just sugar and cochineal.
I’ll bet whoever cooks for you takes your money, buys the cheapest he can get, and pockets the difference.
Probably thinks you’ll all be too drunk to notice –’ I swallowed ‘– senor.’
The guests around the pool had fallen silent.
I could feel the man who held my arm staring at me hard.
I hadn’t meant to speak so freely, had lapsed into my old inn talk without even realizing.
If I’d gone too far … Langham’s face revealed nothing.
Slowly, he half turned his head to address the people behind him.
‘The lad claims the food I’ve served tonight is rotten,’ he called. ‘Is that true? Or is he having me on?’
There were coughs and mumbles as people took hasty sips of their drinks. Come on, you bastards, I told them silently, one of you must have noticed.
‘Well, I didn’t like to say,’ came a voice, crisp and clear in the night, ‘but that fish was rather ghastly.’
It was the woman in the pool, who stood peering up at us, her chin on her hands, hair dripping. She caught my gaze and her dark-stained lips curved into a smile.
‘Thank you, Lillian,’ said Langham. ‘Bouzid, what do you have to say about all this?’
The man who held my arm shrugged a little. ‘I do not know, monsieur.’ He hesitated. ‘It is true Monsieur Hubert arranged his own food delivery.’
‘Well,’ Langham said to his guests. ‘I’d be a poor host if I let you all go hungry. Shall it be trial by fire? Shall we give the boy a chance? Shall he cook us a midnight feast?’
Glasses were raised, people cheering in agreement. At the edge of the crowd I saw Lady Bailey, frowning at us. When I looked back, it was straight into Langham’s eyes as he smiled.